


Alliance

by Pargoletta



Series: Caro-verse [14]
Category: Historical RPF, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Shakespeare - Fandom
Genre: Discussion of Offstage Child Abuse, F/M, Family Secrets, M/M, Operas, Politics, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargoletta/pseuds/Pargoletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A political event brings Mercutio to Mantua, a city he has avoided since his father’s exile there.  He arrives expecting to confront the ghosts of his childhood, but what he finds there is nothing he could ever have anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My House And Welcome

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this story! It’s a little different than others in this series, as it deals with a real event. In 1608, Francesco, son of Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga of Mantua, married Margaret of Savoy. This story takes place at that wedding. Many of the people you will meet in this story are . . . well, _analogues_ to their historical counterparts. If you’re interested, I can give a list at the end, once everyone has played their parts.
> 
> In the reality of the story, Mantua is a bigger and more politically connected city than Verona is, and is ruled by the Duke as he appears in Verdi’s _Rigoletto_ , though the events of that opera are many years in the past. Mercutio and Valentine are related to a couple of the minor characters from _Rigoletto_ , one of whom appears briefly in this story.
> 
> So . . . enjoy this tangled web, and I will meet you at the end!

**1\. My House And Welcome**

* * *

A discreet tap on the door drew Mercutio's attention from the letter he had been composing. He placed the document aside and rose from the desk. "Come in," he called."

The door to the study opened, revealing little Orlando, who stood up straight so as to make himself as tall as possible. "Signior Mercutio, the Prince of Verona is come," he announced, his voice squeaking a little with suppressed excitement. Then he stepped aside as neatly as any dancing master, and Prince Escalus entered the study.

Mercutio gave a respectful nod. "Welcome, Uncle," he said, and cleared a stack of papers from the nicer of the two chairs that stood before the desk. "Will it please you sit?"

Escalus gave a wry smile. "Ay, though rising afterwards may not please my bones so well," he said as he settled himself in the chair.

Mercutio turned to Orlando, who was still presenting the very image of the attentive page. "Thou hast done well, Orlando," he said. "Thou mayst return to thy friends now." Orlando smiled, and scampered away.

Escalus watched him go with a faint, fond smile. "Thou hast trained him well," he remarked. "That lad will make a fine page to some noble gentleman when he is older."

Mercutio smiled. "Ay, Orlando is a bright lad, and a charming companion when he is in familiar company. He has blossomed in the time since he came here. But come, Uncle. Surely you did not come to the Innocents' Hospital merely to inspect lads for service. What is the news in Verona?"

"Ah . . ." Escalus took a deep breath, and refused to hold Mercutio's gaze. "The news is not from Verona, but rather . . . from Mantua."

"Ay?" Mercutio picked up his quill and twirled it in his fingers, willing his hands not to shake. In his experience, news from Mantua was never a simple matter.

"Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga has found a bride for his son Francesco," Escalus said, his tone conversational, but his eyes fixed firmly on Mercutio. "He would solemnize the marriage at the end of the month, and to that end, he has sent letters to his brother princes requesting the presence of their households at the occasion."

A cold lump of fear settled in Mercutio's stomach, and his heart raced. Suddenly desperate to maintain control of his demeanor, he gave voice to his thoughts as soon as they entered his head, not caring that it resembled the voice of madness, only that it gave him cause not to scream. "And you will take Paris, who is your heir, and Helena, who will grace his arm. That will be well. Dionisio is but nine years of age. That is old enough to travel, but think you that he is of age to attend the ceremonies? He is welcome to board here at the Hospital, an you would leave him behind; we have beds enough, and he may play with boys of his own age. Or Valentine may care for him. Silvia has adored him from the moment she set foot in Verona, and Dionisio may pass the time with his cousins -"

"Mercutio." Escalus held up a hand, and Mercutio made an effort and stilled his tongue. "Francesco is his father's heir, and his bride is of a lineage just as noble. Duke Vincenzo would have a merry crowd to celebrate his son's nuptials, and has requested the presence of the entire household to that purpose. Thou and Valentine are included in that count."

Mercutio swallowed a surge of panic and made one more attempt to reason with Escalus. "And if aught were to befall your household in Mantua? Surely you will leave one behind so that Verona may not lose our entire family in one disaster."

Escalus nodded. "Ay, thou hast the right of it, on both counts. I shall command Paris to leave Dionisio at home in the care of his nurse and his tutors, for he is Paris's heir even as Paris is mine."

Defeated, Mercutio slumped against his desk. "Uncle," he murmured, "I have no desire to set foot in Mantua."

"I know that," Escalus replied. "And until this day, I have not required it of thee. But Duke Vincenzo has made his wishes clear, and I would not refuse him in this matter. Thou art a grown man, Mercutio, and I would have thee carry thyself with the courage that befits thy state. After all, thou dost spend thy days in this house."

"My days only, but not my nights," Mercutio countered. "I have changed this house, and it is no longer what it was. The same cannot be said of Mantua."

"Mantua is what it is. Thou knowest well that there is no threat to thee in that city, living or dead. Thou hast never seen it, and no part of it can summon any memory that could fright thee."

Mercutio sighed. It was no use to argue the point further, for Escalus was his Prince as well as his uncle, and could use whatever force he wished to ensure that Mercutio complied with his wishes. Still, Escalus was his uncle as well as his Prince, and there remained the hope of one slim comfort.

"Uncle, may all the grown members of your household travel to Mantua?"

Escalus did not answer for a moment, and Mercutio wondered if he had asked too much. But then the corners of Escalus's mouth twitched, and a smile flitted across his jaw. "Ay, Mercutio," he said. "Thou hast naught to fear from thine old uncle. Duke Vincenzo has requested my entire household, but I determine the meaning of that. I count Benvolio in my household as well, and he will accompany thee even as Helena and Silvia travel with their husbands."

Mercutio could not hide a shudder of relief. "I thank you, Uncle," he said. "It will be a comfort to me."

"Then we will depart without quarrel," Escalus said. "A week from tomorrow, mark thou. We will remain in Mantua a fortnight to partake fully of the festivities."

"Ay, my Lord Uncle." Mercutio paused. "Might I ask what lady the Duke of Mantua has selected for his son?"

Escalus looked mildly surprised at the question, but shrugged. "He has chosen Margaret, daughter of the Duke of Savoy."

"A noble house indeed," Mercutio said. "Have you more news that I must hear?"

To his credit, Escalus took the hint graciously. "No more. I shall not keep thee from thy business here." He creaked to his feet, and Mercutio went to the door and called one of the boys to escort the Prince out.

Only after Escalus had left did Mercutio allow himself to collapse into his chair. His stomach churned, and he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes so that he would not weep, not in the Hospital where the children needed his strength. His heart fluttered, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself.

A knock on the door startled him from his thoughts. He looked up to see that he had not closed it fully after Escalus had departed, and Cardenio peered into the study, his face shadowed with concern. Mercutio sighed. The damage was not what it might have been. Cardenio was more than half grown, old enough to see adult distress and not panic, and he was one of the boys whose scars were most familiar to Mercutio.

"Welcome, Cardenio," Mercutio called. "What dost thou require?"

Cardenio slipped into the study, but did not close the door. "I require naught of consequence, Signior Mercutio," he said. "I chanced to pass by, and I saw the Prince depart, and then I caught a glimpse of your distress. I am curious, I suppose. Is our home in peril?"

Mercutio stared at Cardenio for a moment, suddenly conscious of how he might look, disheveled and red-eyed from the turmoil in his heart. "Nay, Cardenio, no peril threatens thee or thy friends."

Cardenio relaxed and flashed a quick smile, then chewed his lip, not daring to ask the question that was written so plainly upon his face.

The unasked question gave Mercutio the courage to ask one of his own; after all, Cardenio was nearly grown, and Mercutio judged him old enough to answer. "Cardenio, what thinkst thou of this place, this Hospital?"

Cardenio blinked with surprise. "Why, it is my home," he said. "It is the place where I have been cared for and raised with unending love. Before I came here, I recall only that I was like unto a beast that knows naught but darkness and fear. Here, I have grown in the light and I am become nearly a man. I am to be apprenticed soon, and will go to dwell with my master, but this Hospital will always be the true home of my childhood."

Mercutio smiled at the image of the house that he saw reflected in Cardenio's speech. "I thank thee for thy words, Cardenio. Thou hast comforted me more than thou knowest."

"Signior Mercutio?"

"Ay?"

"This house was your father's?"

Mercutio nodded. "Ay, and I inherited it from him upon his death."

Cardenio pursed his lips for a moment before he spoke again. "I think . . . I think that I know things now that I did not know when I was a child," he said softly. "When I was very small, I saw that you and Signior Benvolio would leave us in the evenings, and I knew not wherefore, and I feared each night that you would not return. When I was a little older, I knew that you and Signior Benvolio would return each day, but still I knew not wherefore you left. But, of late . . ." his voice trailed off, and he looked uncertain.

Mercutio nodded for Cardenio to continue.

"Of late," Cardenio went on, "I have seen and heard things that perhaps I should not have known. I think . . . I think I know now wherefore you do not pass the nights in this house with us."

Mercutio kept his voice calm and even. "And what thinkst thou of thy newfound knowledge?"

"It pains me," Cardenio admitted. "I would that you had no sorrows, for you have been kind to us here."

"Thy compassion moves me," Mercutio said. "My sorrows fade when I see the peace that this house has given thee and the others. Fear not, Cardenio, for thy home will remain safe."

Relieved, Cardenio hurried across the room and embraced Mercutio quickly but fervently. Comforted by the gesture, Mercutio ruffled his hair a little before sending him on his way.

* * *

Cardenio's words bolstered Mercutio's heart for the rest of the day, but his troubles returned as night fell. After the evening prayers, Mercutio retired with Benvolio to their chamber. Without a word, Mercutio fled to the balcony that overlooked the interior garden, but even the scent of flowers in the fullness of spring could not cheer him, for the scent recalled to his mind another spring, long past, when he had feared that his world would end. Finding no sanctuary under the stars, Mercutio returned to the bedchamber. Benvolio sat on the end of the bed, waiting patiently for him. Mercutio paced the breadth of the chamber twice, and then a wave of terror hit him, and he dropped to his knees in the middle of the floor.

Benvolio hurried to his side and put his arm around Mercutio, drawing him just close enough to feel Benvolio's presence.

" _Caro_ , wilt thou speak?" Benvolio asked. "Wilt thou share thy heart's burden with thy consort?"

Mercutio curled himself as small as he could, then slowly unfolded his limbs. He shifted so that he could rest his head on Benvolio's shoulder and breathe in his scent. "Thou knowest that we must travel to Mantua," he said.

"Ay." Mercutio had told Benvolio the bare bones of the matter that afternoon, and the Prince had spoken further of it at supper.

"I have feared Mantua for so many years," Mercutio went on. "After my father was banished, I knew two things. I knew that he could no longer touch me in Verona, and I knew that I would be at his mercy if ever I set foot in Mantua. Mantua is his city. And though he is dead these past eleven years, and his body sleeps in our monument where I may visit at any time to witness that he no longer lives, yet still I think of Mantua with dread. We have driven his ghost from his home in Verona, but what if it has returned to Mantua to haunt the last place he dwelled?"

Benvolio did not answer immediately, but stroked Mercutio's hair. The gentle, rhythmic touch was soothing, and Mercutio found that he could breathe normally again. "What else dost thou know of Mantua?" Benvolio asked after a few moments. "Hast thou other kinsmen in that city?"

Mercutio thought for a moment. "Ay. There are the Borsas. They are my father's cousins, and I believe that he lodged with him when first he was banished. There is a son a few years older than I. I recall dimly that they visited my father when I was small, though I do not recall much of the occasion."

"Dost thou desire to seek them out when we are in Mantua?" Benvolio asked.

"I fear that the choice is not mine to make. The Borsas attend the Gonzaga court, and I expect that they will be at the marriage festivities. I shall see my cousins whether I will or no."

"Perhaps they might tell thee of thy father," Benvolio said.

Mercutio's chest spasmed at the thought, and he choked as he tried to stifle a cry of protest. Benvolio tightened his embrace.

"Nay, calm thyself, _caro_ ," he said. "When thou wast a child, thy father was a monster larger than life. But to thy cousins, he was no more than a man. Perhaps we may persuade them to tell thee of the man, and thus transform the monster into a smaller thing."

"Am I so bold a knight that I can slay the fearsome beast?"

Benvolio chuckled a little. "Thou art bolder than thou knowest, _caro_. But thou needst not face this beast alone. I shall remain at thy side, and shouldst thou have need of me, I will be there."

Mercutio sighed, and wound his arms around Benvolio. "Thy kindness bears me up, and I am forever glad of my sweet friend."

"What better thing may I do in Mantua?" Benvolio laughed. "I shall be at thy side to love and care for thee, as any man would do for his beloved consort." He pressed a kiss onto Mercutio's brow, then rose from the floor, drawing Mercutio with him.

"Come to bed," he said. "I shall sing to thee a little ere we sleep, so that thou mayst recall thy present state even after thou dost pass into the realm of Mab."


	2. The Steerage Of My Course

**2\. The Steerage Of My Course**

* * *

“Must you leave us?” Orlando asked, his voice wobbling a little. None of the other boys took the chance to tease him for this weakness, and indeed, Cardenio reached out and clasped Orlando’s hand in his.

“Ay,” Mercutio replied, “though it pains us to do so.”

“The Prince has given us his command,” Benvolio added, “and we must obey that command, even as you must obey your nurses and put away your amusements at the close of day.”

The assembled Hospital inmates considered this analogy, but few of them looked convinced by it. Mercutio could not find it in his heart to feel anything for them save sympathy. “We shall not be far from here,” he said, and his eye fell on a large scroll that had been a recent Christmas gift from Romeo. “Come, I have an idea,” he said. “Let us go to the dining hall.”

He picked up the scroll, and Benvolio and the children followed him to the Hospital’s dining hall. Mercutio set the scroll down on one of the long tables, and the boys clustered around him, eager to see what the scroll contained. Mercutio slowly unrolled it, revealing a large, handsome map with the city of Verona placed in the center. He placed his finger on the little image. “This is Verona, where we live,” he said.

Some of the smaller boys leaned closer to examine the picture. “It looks like a church,” Sebastian said.

“Nay, a palace,” his twin brother Benedetto replied.

“It is a representation only,” Benvolio said with a smile.

Mercutio placed a second finger on Verona and slowly traced it south a short distance until it rested upon another small image of a city. “That is Mantua,” he said. “It is half a day’s travel away. We shall depart with the first rays of the dawn, and we shall arrive in Mantua in plenty of time for dinner.”

“That is not very far at all,” Orlando said.

“Nay, it is not,” Mercutio said, “but it is far enough.” He traced his finger along a line drawn in red on the map that separated Verona from Mantua. “That is the edge of the territory of Venice. Mantua does not have the relationship with the doge of Venice that we in Verona do, and its laws are different.”

“How different?” Cardenio asked. “Do they not keep the peace in Mantua as we do in Verona?”

Mercutio opened his mouth to reply, but found that the words stuck in his throat. He knew little of the law in Mantua, save only that it had not prevented his father from preying upon children there.

“Mantua’s law differs from ours in particulars only,” Benvolio said quickly. “There are differences concerning what may be sold, and when, and how a son may inherit, and things of that nature. But Mantua is a city like any other, and its laws are intended to promote order and the public weal.”

Mercutio flashed a grateful smile at Benvolio, then turned his attention back to the children. “So you see that we will not be very far away after all,” he said. “We will remain a fortnight in Mantua, and then we will travel half a day and return to Verona, and we will tell you tales of our adventures.”

Cardenio smiled. “We will ask Friar John to pray for your safety every day that you are gone from us.”

“That is a kind thought,” Benvolio said. “I am certain our journey will be all the pleasanter for your prayers.”

* * *

Mercutio and Benvolio departed the Hospital at their usual evening hour, having received many farewell embraces from the children. Having seen the distress of those children at their imminent journey, Mercutio was not entirely surprised to find more distressed children at the palace. Valentine greeted his brothers at the door with a wry, weary smile upon his face.

“Beware,” he intoned, “for you shall receive but one warning of the dire fate that lurks within.”

Mercutio laughed. “And what fate is that, _ragazzo_?” he asked, though the sound of childish complaints from within already answered his question.

“Uncle has just given notice that Dionisio is to remain at home,” Valentine replied. “Helena and Silvia have attempted to make him see sense, but he will have none of it, he thanks you kindly.”

“And thus fortune doth contrive to make fools of us all,” Mercutio said. “I would gladly have changed my place for Dionisio’s, but Uncle stood firm in that as well.”

Benvolio threw a consoling arm around Mercutio’s shoulders. “Then, since fate will not be swayed, let us make the most of what we are given,” he said. “Perhaps we may take some amusement from this drama, at least.”

Mercutio smiled, and they followed Valentine into the palace. As it turned out, Helena was shouldering most of the burden of talking to Dionisio, who stood stiffly, his arms crossed forbiddingly over his chest, and his face set in a firm pout. Silvia had retired to the edge of the salon, and held her year-old son Girolamo on her lap while she watched Helena’s efforts with some amusement. Girolamo’s three-year-old sister Marietta sat at her mother’s feet, petting the dog Fiducia. When she spied her uncles approaching, she squealed and ran to embrace them. Benvolio caught her and swung her up in the air to make her laugh, and Mercutio kissed her cheek.

“How now, Marietta,” Benvolio said. “What fearsome quarrel have we stumbled upon here?”

“Dionisio wishes to go to Mantua,” Marietta said, worrying a button at Benvolio’s throat. “He has given Auntie Helena such a sauce.” Her eyes went wide and her voice dropped to a whisper as she reported this naughtiness.

“That was unwise,” Mercutio told her. “Auntie Helena will not be swayed by sauce. All of the best soldiers know better than to give sauce to the foe. But that is why little boys are not the best soldiers.”

Benvolio set Marietta on her feet, then turned an amused expression on Mercutio. “And how long didst thou take to learn the lesson that thou hast so piously given thy niece?” he asked.

“Wherefore dost thou believe that I have learned it?” Mercutio replied with a grin. “I spend my days with children. I shall leave the soldiering to those with a taste for it.”

* * *

No matter how cheerfully Mercutio spoke of the journey to his niece and nephews, he could not shake his own dread of it. Though he knew that it was futile, he could not banish the memory of his father’s face from his mind, nor the portrait of a Mantuan child who had hanged himself in the shame of what Giacomo Rinuccini had done to him. That boy’s burning eyes tormented Mercutio so that his throat closed and his stomach rebelled at the smell of the roast pigeon set before him at supper. But, mercifully, Escalus did not reprimand his lack of appetite that evening, even with so much as a pointedly raised brow.

The royal family retired early that evening so that they might depart just before dawn. Valentine bade Mercutio good night with a fierce embrace, and Mercutio’s heart sank to feel his brother tremble in his arms. “Most likely we shall spend a pleasant fortnight, _ragazzo_ ,” Mercutio murmured, pretending to courage that he did not have. “And whatever may befall us, thy children shall remain here where no harm may come to them.”

“Marietta and Girolamo are safe,” Valentine repeated. “That is all that is important.” He tightened his arms around Mercutio one last time, then retired.

Mercutio remained in the corridor a few moments longer, then joined Benvolio in their bedchamber. Their trunks were packed, and a clean nightgown was laid out for Mercutio. Benvolio had lit the night candle and sat in bed waiting patiently for Mercutio. As Mercutio changed into his nightgown, his fingers grew numb, though at the end of May, the night was no longer especially cold. Nevertheless, the numbness spread throughout his body until he stumbled upon getting into bed. Benvolio quickly embraced him and pulled the covers over his shoulders.

“Thou art cold as ice, _caro_ ,” he said.

“As the grave, belike,” Mercutio replied. “My body feels strange to me, as if some other spirit has possessed it, and I am elsewhere.”

“Flee not where I cannot follow,” Benvolio said, and pressed his lips to Mercutio’s. The kiss was firm but not invasive, and the taste and smell of his consort sent shivers of warmth through Mercutio. He clutched Benvolio closer to him, desperate for the solidity of the present moment. His wishes were more than granted when he felt Benvolio’s prick begin to harden against him, and he squirmed closer to that proof of Benvolio’s living presence.

“Take me,” he murmured into Benvolio’s mouth. “Slay the specter that haunts me, and anchor the vessel it seeks to steal.”

Benvolio needed no second invitation, but stretched out on top of Mercutio, his kisses growing deeper and needier as they squirmed free of their nightgowns and set about establishing the corporeal reality of the moment.

* * *

The royal family set out just as the eastern sky began to blush pink. They were trailed by a retinue of pages and a cart containing their trunks. The journey was relatively easy, as Mantua maintained a certain amount of traffic with Verona, and there was a road between the two cities. The party halted in the middle of the morning at a small hamlet that was little more than a collection of shepherds’ huts to stretch their legs and water their horses, and then continued on.

By the time they reached Mantua, it was just past midday, and the sun blazed overhead. Mantua was a larger city than Verona, and its population had swelled as visitors arrived from near and far to join the festivities surrounding the marriage of the Duke’s son. Exhausted from the journey, Mercutio’s first impressions of this dreaded city were of a maelstrom of color, people, and noise. His head spun, and a strange ache in his stomach nearly doubled him over his saddle horn. Benvolio quickly maneuvered his horse close to Mercutio’s.

“How dost thou fare, _caro_?” Benvolio asked.

“There is a pain in my body, below my heart,” Mercutio replied. “It slices me clear through to my spine.”

Benvolio laughed. “Thou art merely hungry. We set out before dawn with only a short rest, and now we have arrived at a carnival where tempting delicacies are sold on the street. I wager that thou wilt return to life when we have arrived at the Duke’s palace and had the chance to refresh ourselves.”

* * *

Fortunately, it appeared that someone had anticipated their arrival, for the Veronese party was ushered into the Duke’s presence almost as soon as they arrived at the palace. Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga was a large man, past his middle years, but still vigorous and full of the enjoyment of life. His voice was rich and sonorous as he welcomed Escalus to his court and embraced his brother ruler. He was no less gracious to the rest of Escalus’s family, and his eyes drank in Silvia and Helena with a frank appreciation that caused Silvia to clutch Valentine’s hand and drew a sour sniff from his Duchess, Eleonora.

“He is a powerful man,” Benvolio murmured in Mercutio’s ear, “if half the tales I have heard of him are true and her family have not yet found a way to curb him. She is a daughter of the Medici.” He had no time to say more, for Duke Vincenzo’s attention had left the ladies at last.

Escalus extended a gloved hand in Mercutio’s direction. “May I further present our nephew Mercutio Rinuccini, and Benvolio Montague, our ward and beloved foster son.”

Mercutio and Benvolio bowed politely to Duke Vincenzo. Mercutio allowed himself a small smile at his uncle’s clever way with words. For it was true that the contract that had brought Benvolio to his bed eleven years ago could be read as an agreement of fostering, and indeed, some of the language had been drawn from such documents, though Benvolio had been well past the age at which most boys were fostered.

Duke Vincenzo smiled at the group. “You have arrived most fortuitously,” he said. “Our son and his bride are due to arrive from Turin on the morrow. Quarters have been prepared for you, and we shall cause a light repast to be sent there. You may rest and take refreshment, and then you shall be our guests at a small banquet to begin at the hour of five.”

“We thank you for your hospitality.” Escalus bowed to Duke Vincenzo, and footmen appeared to show them out of the reception hall.

The Veronese had among them four rooms. The footmen bowed apologetically as they ushered Mercutio and Benvolio into a chamber that boasted a large bed with a truckle already pulled out and made up. “So many guests have arrived to celebrate Lord Francesco’s marriage that we must make economy of space,” one of them said. “Signior Rinuccini, I trust that you will see the need for your most honored foster brother to share your sleeping quarters.” He looked so earnest that Mercutio could not help but smile.

“Ay, sirrah, I am well pleased with thy thrifty ways, and I commend thee most heartily to thy master.” Behind him, Benvolio choked, and Mercutio did not dare to turn around to see his expression. Relieved, the servant bowed once more and hurried away. Mercutio waited until he was sure that the man was out of earshot before he began to laugh. Benvolio flung himself onto the bed, grinning broadly. He reached out and seized Mercutio’s arm, and Mercutio let Benvolio pull him down onto the bed beside him.

Before they could make themselves comfortable, there was a discreet knock on the door, and Escalus entered, smiling indulgently at them. “I trust that the arrangements are acceptable,” he said. “Still I would advise a certain discretion while we are outside Verona. My influence can shield you from some scrutiny, but not all. Therefore, take your pleasure, but be cautious as you do.” He winked at them and left the room.

The large bed was deliciously soft beneath Mercutio’s sore muscles. He could have lain there forever with Benvolio by his side, but Benvolio had other ideas. To Mercutio’s disappointment, he hauled himself off the bed and went to investigate the covered tray on the table in the far corner of the chamber. The tray proved to contain a selection of fruits, nuts and small sweetmeats, and Benvolio carried it to the bed.

“If we take care, I think we may eat here, and none will be the wiser,” he said, and offered Mercutio a dried fig. “This may soothe the pain in thy belly.”

The fig was leathery, chewy and sweet, and Mercutio realized that he was indeed hungry. Lying on the bed with Benvolio’s hand absently stroking his hair, he could eat and take pleasure in the food. He reached for another fig, and Benvolio caught his hand and kissed it on its way. Perhaps this sojourn would indeed be pleasant. Mercutio relaxed and allowed himself to enjoy the warmth of the day and the savor of his food.


	3. With All The Admired Beauties

****

3\. With All The Admired Beauties

* * *

It was not long after the clocks had struck four that Mercutio and Benvolio descended into Duke Vincenzo’s reception hall along with the rest of their family. They had washed the dust of the road from their bodies and dressed themselves in fine clothes in anticipation of the formal banquet. The starched ruff at Mercutio’s neck tickled his chin, and he squirmed, fighting the urge to open his collar. Paris laid a warning hand upon his shoulder.

“Mercutio, recall that thou art a gentleman,” he murmured.

“Even a gentleman may be cross when Dame Fashion has cursed him to choke on such a high collar as I must wear,” Mercutio hissed back.

Before Paris could reply, Benvolio stepped between them. With nimble fingers, he loosed the top button of Mercutio’s collar and tugged at the lace ruff. “Now thou hast room to breathe,” he said, “and this doublet boasts enough lace at thy throat to conceal it,” he added with a glance at Paris.

Paris nodded his approval, and the Veronese made their way into the reception hall. They bowed politely before the Duke and Duchess, and then a fair, ruddy man in the prime of his life stepped forward and smiled at Mercutio.

“How now,” he said. “Unless I miss my guess, thou art my kinsman Mercutio Rinuccini! I am Claudio Borsa. Dost thou know me? We met once as children, methinks. Do I recall aright that thou hast a brother?” He glanced at Benvolio, and his brow furrowed.

Mercutio extended his hand, and Valentine joined them with Silvia on his arm. “This is my brother Valentine and his lady wife Silvia,” he said. “Valentine, I think thou dost not recall our cousin Claudio Borsa.”

Valentine inclined his head graciously. “It is an honor, sir.”

Claudio returned the bow and briefly clasped Silvia’s hand. “You must meet my Lucrezia,” he said to her. Then his glance strayed once more to Benvolio.

Mercutio summoned up the image of his and Benvolio’s contract in his mind’s eye. “May I present our foster brother Benvolio Montague, another ward of our uncle the Prince of Verona.”

Benvolio gave a courteous nod. Claudio returned the courtesy and then returned his attention to Mercutio and Valentine. “Come, cousins,” he said. “I must present you to my father.” He steered them to an elderly gentleman whom he introduced as Signor Matteo Borsa.

Matteo looked long and searchingly at Mercutio and Valentine, and Mercutio’s skin crawled beneath that scrutiny. At last, Matteo sighed and dropped his gaze. “There is much of your lady mother in both of you,” he said, “but the mark of your father also dwells in your faces. The trace is faint, yet there is something of my kinsman Giacomo in you.”

He did not appear to notice the ashen pallor that had spread over Valentine’s face. But Mercutio noticed it, along with the knot forming in his own stomach. It had long been a point of pride for him and for Valentine that they both favored Donatella over Giacomo, so long that Mercutio had forgotten that there were those who might wish it otherwise. He knew that Matteo had welcomed Giacomo to Mantua in his banishment, and now he realized, with some astonishment, that Matteo had counted Giacomo as a friend as well as a kinsman. Perhaps he had not known the full extent of Giacomo’s crimes. Mercutio seized on this thought as a spar of wood on which he might ride out the flood in his heart, and was able to force a smile.

“Perhaps I may learn more of Father from you, sir, at a later time,” he said. After all, Benvolio had counted that as a benefit, had he not?

Matteo did not miss the unspoken request and made a graceful withdrawal. “Another time, then, cousin,” he said. “It would be my honor to reacquaint thee with thy father.”

A servant rang a bell to signal the start of the banquet. Relieved, Mercutio found Benvolio’s hand under cover of the crowd and squeezed it briefly for reassurance as they made their way to the banquet hall.

* * *

Mercutio found himself seated between two of Duke Vincenzo’s younger children. Ferdinando wore a Cardinal’s robes, though he was barely an adult, a common enough fate for the second sons of princes. His holy state did not prevent him from ogling the ladies at the table, and he cast several distinctly jealous glances in Valentine’s direction. In between his longing glances, he attempted to make conversation with his father’s guest. Mindful of his manners, Mercutio made sure to address the young Cardinal as “Your Eminence,” but he could not bring enough conviction to his words to satisfy Ferdinando, who clung to the dignity of the style as fervently as he seemed to despise the substance of his office. Eventually, Mercutio abandoned the conversation and left Ferdinando to stew in his own frustration.

Far more interesting was his other seatmate, Duke Vincenzo’s nine-year-old daughter Eleonore. Mercutio had been assigned to escort her to the table, and in that brief walk, she had lost all of her initial shyness. Now she chattered happily about the excitement of her oldest brother’s wedding, her brothers Ferdinando and Vincenzo, and her adored older sister Margherita, who had been married two years previously and was now the Duchess of Lorraine.

“Margherita has written to say that she is with child,” Eleonore said. “I hope that she will come to visit us in Mantua when it is born so that I may see her baby. Margherita writes that she hopes for a boy, but I want a little girl. What would you prefer?”

Mercutio considered the question. His father had become violent with fear that Mercutio’s miscarried older sibling might have been a girl. But Marietta, the first living girl-child born into the royal family since her grandmother Donatella, had stolen the hearts of all around her. “For my part, I find all children charming,” Mercutio said to Eleonore, “though I think it is easier for the wives of noble men if the first child they bear is a son.”

Eleonore pursed her lips as she considered that statement and its implications for her own future. “When Margherita’s baby is born, it will be my nephew or my niece,” she said, “and I shall be its aunt. I wonder if I shall like being an aunt. Have you a nephew or a niece?”

“Ay,” Mercutio replied. “There is Dionisio, who is the son of Paris.” He pointed discreetly to Paris, who sat a few chairs down. “Dionisio is about thy age. My brother Valentine has a daughter called Marietta, who is three years of age, and a son called Girolamo, who is yet an infant.”

Eleonore sighed. “Wherefore could not your nephew Dionisio have come along with you?” she asked. “I should enjoy the company of a child of mine own age.” Suddenly weary, she folded her arms on the table and pillowed her head on them.

Mercutio gave a wry smile and patted Eleonore’s shoulder. “Dionisio wanted to join us, but Uncle would not have it so. I think thou wouldst have enjoyed his company, but it is not to be. Thou wilt have to content thyself with a great child of thirty-one years instead.”

Eleonore smiled at that idea. “Perhaps one day I shall marry Dionisio,” she suggested. “Then I may enjoy his company whenever I wish.”

Mercutio laughed at that, though he did not consider it at all likely. Duke Vincenzo was clearly concerned with matching his children well, and the royal house of Verona was not nearly grand enough for his designs.

* * *

The next day, all the citizens of Mantua thronged the streets to welcome Francesco and Margaret to the city. The fields outside the city walls had been plucked bare of flowers to create the garlands that lined the couple’s route to the ducal palace, as well as nosegays for the people to hold or toss. Several enterprising citizens who lived along the parade route had managed to earn a few scudi by charging a small fee to their neighbors for the privilege of standing at their windows. Duke Vincenzo had declared the day a holiday, and the city had responded by holding a fair.

Escalus permitted his family to attend the fair in the morning, but admonished them to arrive at the cathedral by noon so that they could be present to welcome the bridal couple.

“Perhaps a bit less than bridal,” Valentine observed. “Was the marriage not solemnized several months past, in Turin? I cannot possibly imagine how Francesco and his lady might have occupied their time since then,” he added, with a broad wink at Silvia.

Silvia laughed and swatted her husband’s arm. Escalus concealed a grin from the Mantuan courtiers who stood nearby, and even Paris managed a wry smile at this indecency.

* * *

Francesco and Margaret actually arrived at the cathedral some time after noon, their procession having been delayed by the hordes of well-wishers crowding their path. They paused at the door so that Francesco could greet the crowds and so that Margaret’s ladies could pluck from her hair stray flowers thrown by those who had watched them from windows. This brief duty completed, Francesco escorted Margaret into the church to the blare of trombones.

The ceremony that followed was brief and simple. Ferdinando, in his office as Cardinal, had been chosen to conduct it, and he did so with as much dignity as he could muster. It was not a wedding Mass, as that had already been done in Turin, but Ferdinando used the occasion to bless his brother’s marriage and reaffirm the solemnity of the state.

Mercutio glanced around, and saw Benvolio at his size, his gaze fixed intently upon the young couple. He thought he perceived a somewhat wistful glimmer in Benvolio’s eye. Though they had been given a ceremony, it had been hasty, a furtive, improvised thing meant primarily to placate Benvolio’s aunt and uncle and assure them that the alliance between the house of Montague and the royal family was real.

“What art thou thinking?” he murmured. “Dost thou regret aught that thou couldst have had?”

Benvolio shook himself. “What? Nay!” he replied quietly. “Had I chosen this, I should have had pomp and circumstance aplenty, but only for a day, and then dwelt in miserable denial to the end of my days. Gladly do I forfeit such ceremony, for I have thee in exchange for it.” He could not kiss Mercutio in the cathedral, but he let his hand brush over Mercutio’s, and that was thrill enough.

* * *

After Francesco and Margaret emerged from the church to the deafening roar of the crowd gathered outside, the reveling began in earnest. At every corner was a small consort of musicians, or a troupe of players, or a juggler, or some contest of skill or strength. Claudio Borsa emerged from the crowd and offered to show his cousin around the town, and Mercutio accepted the invitation eagerly. Benvolio did not accompany them, as he had discovered a bank of chess players who looked for opponents. “Go with thy cousin,” he said. “I shall see thee at the ball tonight.”

He turned to the chess players, and Mercutio followed Claudio into the crowd. In a piazza not far away, a crowd of boys and young men were playing pallone. The day was warm, and the players soon paused in their play to rest and wipe the sweat from their brows. As they panted and blew, a few exhorted the spectators to join them in their sport.

Mercutio turned to Claudio and grinned. “What sayst thou, coz?” he asked.

Claudio laughed. “Nay, not I! I have become a respectable gentleman, and my sporting days are long past.”

“The gleam in thine eye speaks otherwise. Come, hast thou no skill left? Or art thou become a dotard in thy prime?” Mercutio picked up the ball where the youths had let it drop, bounced it once, and then batted it at his cousin.

Claudio swatted the ball back with more force than Mercutio had anticipated. He dodged the ball, and one of the boys caught it with an appreciative whistle. “Skill hast thou aplenty,” Mercutio crowed. “Therefore, an thou be a man of action not yet withered to dust, let us test thy skills.”

The other youths took up the cry, and Claudio consented to a brief game, though the smile on his face as he did so was almost feral with glee. The players stripped off their doublets and divided themselves into rough teams, with Claudio’s team also removing their shirts to distinguish themselves, revealing physiques made strong and muscular by hunting and labor.

Freed from the confines of his doublet, Mercutio threw himself joyfully into the game. Claudio did indeed possess both the skill and the strength to send the ball flying as hard and fast as any crossbow quarrel, but Mercutio’s lithe speed and agility, maintained by romping with the children of the Hospital, served his team just as well in defending their goal, the door of a small chapel. They played until the sweat dripped from their brows, and their faces glowed pink in the heat. By the time they broke to rest, Mercutio’s team had lost by but a single goal, and all were well pleased. Claudio laughed even as he panted for breath, and Mercutio handed him his doublet.

“’Twas a right fair match, coz, and I shall stand thee a cup of ale as prize for thy victory.”

They made their way to an inn. Over a pitcher of watery ale, Claudio told Mercutio some of the local lore of Mantua.

“Our Duke is a ruler both wise and strong,” he said, “though it is hardly a secret that he was less than discreet with fair women in his earlier years. Still, he did sire five children upon the Duchess, so I wager there must have been aught to detain him there on occasion.”

“He is generous with a festival,” Mercutio observed.

“Ay, and therefore do the folk of Mantua love him, for their mighty labors are just as mightily rewarded.”

“It is a fair city,” Mercutio said, glancing around him. The observation came as a pleasant surprise to him, lightening his heart after days of dread. “I should like to explore further after we have refreshed ourselves.”

Claudio nodded and drank deeply of his ale. “Ay, we still have time ere we must return to the palace. I shall show thee some of the neighborhoods where thou mayst amuse thyself, and some that I would advise thee and thy brother to avoid.”

“Avoid? Wherefore?”

Suddenly, Claudio would not meet Mercutio’s eyes. “It is shame that I must tell thee of this, but the years that thy father dwelled with us here in Mantua were not entirely peaceful.”

“Ay, I learned as much from the letters that I received upon his death.” Mercutio tightened his grasp on his cup so that his hands would not shake. The content of those letters had nearly destroyed him, but the idea for the Innocents’ Hospital had been born from that chaos. Mercutio kept the images of the children firm in his mind as Claudio spoke.

“Then thou wilt not be entirely surprised to hear that . . . well, there are neighborhoods in this city where the name of Rinuccini is decidedly less than welcome. Even the name of Borsa is shunned, as it was known that it was we who took him in when he arrived.”

Mercutio sighed. The news saddened him, but it was no shock, and there was even a small drop of comfort therein at the knowledge that others in Mantua could confirm the true nature of Giacomo Rinuccini. He gave a sober nod.

“I understand, and I thank thee, coz. I shall tell my brother and his wife of these boundaries upon our excursions, and we shall not bother the inmates of those neighborhoods.” He finished the last of his ale and smiled. “Shall we now explore those areas of the city welcome to us?”


	4. Things That We Ordained Festival

****

4\. Things That We Ordained Festival

* * *

“Didst thou enjoy thy cousin’s company?” Benvolio asked when Mercutio returned to the Duke’s palace.

Mercutio nodded. “Ay. I must speak to Valentine about our encounter, for Claudio has told me many things that my brother must know.”

“There will be time later,” Benvolio replied. He reached out and took Mercutio’s hand in his, leading him toward their guest chamber. “But now, there is a bath prepared for us, and we must make ourselves ready for the dancing tonight.”

Mercutio smiled and hurried after Benvolio, flush with the anticipation of two of his favorite pastimes. He had always enjoyed immersing himself in water, whether for the simple joy of play or the oddly profound relief of washing filth from his body. To these childhood joys he could also add the pleasure of sharing a bath with his consort, who was more than happy to play in the water with him.

The large wooden tub stood ready by the fire, lined with falls of muslin and half-filled with cool water. Mercutio and Benvolio peeled sweat-dampened clothes from their bodies as their pages lifted kettles of water from the fire where they had been boiling and poured the hot water into the tub, warming it to a pleasant temperature. Benvolio dismissed them, and they withdrew, leaving their masters to their privacy.

Mercutio immediately submerged himself in the warm, rosemary-scented water. The accumulated sweat of playing pallone and roaming the streets with Claudio had dried on his skin, leaving it unpleasantly sticky, and he wriggled with relief as the clean water claimed him. When he surfaced, Benvolio was waiting with a handful of soft soap, which he rubbed all over Mercutio’s body. Inevitably, his hands lingered longer on certain areas than others, and Mercutio’s squirming took on a more urgent note. He leaned back against Benvolio’s chest, and was almost undone when Benvolio pressed a soft kiss just beneath his ear. With a sigh of regret, Mercutio slipped out of Benvolio’s grasp.

“Wouldst thou have me sully the water ere thou canst wash thyself?” he asked.

Benvolio groaned, but one corner of his mouth quirked up in acknowledgement. “I suppose thou hast the right of it,” he said. “But I shall not let this matter drop, mark thou.”

“Ay, after the ball, when the goblets have been drained to the dregs, the fiddlers have played their last merry dumps, and all have been borne away with weariness and the house is still, then wilt thou wake me once more, thy hands and thy lips cast the spell that bewitches me in the darkest hour of the night.” Mercutio scooped up some water in a cup and poured it over Benvolio’s head, then gently massaged some of the soft soap into his dark locks.

“With thine arms shalt thou lay claim to the whole of my lands,” he went on, “and with my tongue I shall raise the proudest soldier of thy company and slay him in the next moment.” He poured more water over Benvolio’s head to rinse away the lather he had created.

“And when that I have defeated him,” he murmured low in Benvolio’s ear, “then thou shalt spread thy vengeful hand o’er my plains and seize the citadel whence I have defied thee and lay it low, claiming for thine own the treasure that lies within.”

Benvolio laughed low in his throat and twisted around to kiss Mercutio’s lips. “Now art thou become a prophet, for it seems that a glorious future awaits me,” he said. “Come, we shall dance to the tune of fiddles and flutes, and they shall be the war-drums for the battle that awaits.” With a final kiss, Benvolio pulled himself from the tub. He wrapped himself in a towel and tossed one to Mercutio before going to examine the finery that the pages had laid out for them on the bed.

* * *

The dancing hall glowed with the light of hundreds of candles. Jewels glittered, and satin and velvet gleamed. Garlands of flowers lent a sweet perfume to the air, and a consort of musicians were warming and tuning their instruments, playing snatches of popular airs. Men and women, clad in their finest attire, moved around the hall, congregating at tables piled high with wine and sweetmeats. Mercutio smiled broadly as he took it all in, for a festival with dancing was one of his favorite things in life.

The Duke and the Duchess walked a stately measure to open the dancing, and after the first repetition, couples fell in behind them for a pavane. Mercutio looked around the hall, and, as he had suspected, spied little Eleonore leaning against a column, gazing at the dancers with wide eyes. He squeezed Benvolio’s hand, then made his way over to his new friend and bowed to her. She clapped her hands delightedly.

“Oh, Signior Mercutio, I am pleased to see you here!” she cried.

“The honor is mine, lady. Wilt thou walk this bout with me?” he asked, and offered her his hand.

She took it with well-schooled grace, but the giggle that escaped her as they began to dance was very much that of a child. Nevertheless, she held her head high and her back straight, marching through the figures with the careful concentration of a student who knows that her dancing master must be somewhere in the room watching her. She did not make a single mistake in the dance, and beamed with pride when Mercutio bowed to her at its conclusion.

“Thou hast done thy dancing master proud tonight,” he told her, and she flushed with pleasure at the compliment.

“It is easier to dance with you than in my lessons,” she said. “Why is that?”

“In thy lessons, thou must think and consider thy every movement. But here, thou mayst trust in thy schooling and allow thyself to enjoy the music and the company.”

She nodded, as if this made perfect sense to her. “I would dance again.”

“Then let us find thee a new partner.” Mercutio looked around the hall and spied Paris setting an empty glass on a tray carried by a passing servant. “Come,” he told Eleonore. “I shall present thee to my noble cousin Paris, who is the father of Dionisio. Thou mayst ask him all about his son.”

He offered his arm and escorted Eleonore to Paris. Once the introduction was made, he turned to find Tullia, one of Margaret’s ladies, at his elbow, clearly wishing to be asked to dance. Seeing that Paris was well engaged with Eleonore, he turned his attention back to Tullia and led her out onto the floor.

* * *

The days in Mantua fell into a pleasant pattern after the ball. During the day, Duke Vincenzo held magnificent entertainments. One day, the court turned out to watch a palio, with a pack of young noblemen racing through the streets on horseback. Mercutio had longed to take part, but Escalus had strictly forbidden it, and Benvolio had agreed. “Thou knowest these streets not,” he said. “What if thou shouldst lose thy way, or be knocked to the ground and trampled. We might not find thee for hours, and then what wouldst thou have me tell the children of thy demise?” Benvolio always seemed to know the arguments that could pierce Mercutio’s heart, and so he sat on the sidelines of the palio as a spectator, cheering on a young rider wearing the bright red and gold livery of his Borsa cousins.

The next day, Claudio Borsa and a friend of his by the name of Federico Follino arranged a hawking party, to which they invited the Veronese. Paris accepted with uncharacteristic eagerness, having been devoted to flying hawks since his youth. The hunt was moderately successful, and it was a pleasant ride in the country for Mercutio, who had little interest in hawking. But the real entertainment came when the party rested on a green sward to take refreshment.

Paris had begun to form a tentative friendship with Claudio, and he related a story of their first meeting, as small children, when Claudio and his father Matteo had traveled to Verona for the marriage of Mercutio and Valentine’s parents. Three-year-old Paris had not appreciated the presence of his four-year-old guest, especially when Claudio had broken his favorite hobbyhorse. Upon hearing the tale, the Mantuans roared with laughter, and Claudio rose to his feet and bowed low, formally begging Paris’s forgiveness for his rude behavior. Paris laughed and embraced him, and Claudio promised to have a sturdy hobbyhorse sent to Dionisio as an apology.

The nights in Mantua had also acquired a pattern no less pleasant than the days. Mindful of their surroundings, Mercutio and Benvolio made sure not to fall upon each other immediately upon retiring. They fell asleep chastely clutching hands, as they had done during the first months after they had been made consorts. But after a few hours, they would wake, and then they could reach out to each other under the cover of the silence of the deepest night.

They had not brought with them the bracket that hung on their wall in Verona and that always contained a thick candle to burn through the night so that the darkness would not be absolute. But the moon waxed fuller each night, and Mercutio persuaded the chambermaids to leave the curtains open in the evenings. When he woke in the night, the faint silvery glow illuminated the chamber just enough so that Mercutio could see Benvolio lying at his side or moving to cover him with his strong warm body. Benvolio also enjoyed their moonlight dalliances, and paused sometimes to caress Mercutio’s face and hair.

“Thou art so fair that the moonlight turns thy skin to pearl,” he said admiringly one night.

Mercutio smiled. “Am I of great price to thee, then?”

Benvolio did not laugh, but gazed solemnly into Mercutio’s eyes. “Nay.”

“How now, has my worth declined with over-familiarity? Am I become worn and frayed with use?”

Benvolio shook his head and raised his hand to smooth the frown from Mercutio’s brow. “Thou art no pearl of great price to me, for thy value is beyond any price I could name. There is no treasure of gold or jewels that could equal thee, and I should name that man cursed who tried to reduce thy worth to a simple price.”

With that, he leaned down to kiss Mercutio firmly, and his hands swept down Mercutio’s body, nudging between Mercutio’s thighs. Mercutio sighed contentedly into Benvolio’s mouth and parted his legs, welcoming his consort home.

* * *

The next morning dawned gray and rainy, and it appeared that no one at the Duke’s palace had much inclination to seek entertainment outside. Mercutio found that he appreciated the opportunity to rest from the merriment for a while and spend a quiet morning in the company of his family. He considered the possibility of seeking out his cousin Matteo Borsa and asking about his father, but decided against it, not wishing to mar the pleasure of the morning with painful recollection.

Escalus appeared in the doorway midway through the morning with an odd smile on his face and a gleam in his eye. Mercutio and Benvolio scrambled to their feet to bow to their Prince. “Will you join us?” Benvolio asked. “There is a tray of fruit, far more than we can eat alone, and we would not see the bounty of Mantua’s harvests go to waste.”

Escalus shuffled to the table and sat down slowly in the chair that Mercutio drew out for him. “Well,” he said, “Giambattista was right about thee, after all. I thank God that I have been spared to see the day that thou hast learned courtesy so well that it is a natural part of thee.” He smiled to take some of the sting from his words, and Mercutio sat down next to him.

“I am no longer the savage child that you did take into your home, Uncle,” Mercutio replied. “I have taught courtesy to the orphaned children of Verona for nine years. In such a span, even the dullest tutor may be expected to learn that whereof he speaks.”

Escalus chuckled in acknowledgement. “Thy manners have not passed without notice here in Mantua,” he said.

Benvolio moved to stand behind Mercutio’s chair and dropped a hand onto his shoulder. Without thinking, Mercutio covered it with his own. “Have we revealed too much?” Benvolio asked.

“Nay, nay, to the contrary,” Escalus said. “I came to say that I have received a visit from a Signior Follino, who attends this court. Dost thou know him, Mercutio?”

Mercutio shrugged. “Ay. He arranged a hawking party yesterday, along with my noble cousin Borsa.”

“Perhaps he did not mention his daughter to thee?”

Mercutio frowned in puzzlement, and Escalus’s smile widened.

“Ah. He did mention the maid to me,” he said. “He approached me yesternight to say that thou art a fine specimen of a man, and he would be delighted to own thee his son-in-law.”

Benvolio gasped, and his hand on Mercutio’s shoulder gripped more firmly. “I pray you, my Prince, you would not --“

Escalus laughed out loud at that. “Nay, Benvolio, fear not! I have signed a contract with thy noble uncle, and I have taken thy most solemn vow, and I shall not forget those. Dost thou think that I could separate thee from my nephew, or that he would survive that separation?”

Mercutio gritted his teeth. He had suspected for some time that Escalus had fended off similar proposals before, but he rarely spoke of them. “Uncle, what did you say to him?”

Escalus stopped laughing, though his eyes still sparkled. “I told the estimable Signior that, as charming as thou hast become, still thou art no proper match for a young maid, for questions concerning thy ancestors’ conduct may still linger o’er thy house.”

Mercutio clutched Benvolio’s hand more firmly. “Signior Follino must surely have known my father,” he murmured. “I would not have him bear me ill will on that account.”

Escalus shook his head. “Nay. I think he does not suspect the entire truth of the matter. He bears no grudge against thee, and he will find another husband for his daughter in time. I thought only to tell thee, that thou shouldst know it when thou dost see him next.”

“Ay, of course.” Mercutio took a deep breath, and Benvolio stroked his hair gently, soothingly. “When will that be?”

“I would imagine this evening,” Escalus said. “The astrologer assures us that the rain will pass, and it will be a fine night for the newest entertainment that Vincenzo has commissioned. We will be shown a new musical drama that he has commissioned from the director of his ensembles, one Signior Claudio Monteverdi.”

“Oh!” Benvolio loosened his grip on Mercutio’s shoulder. “I have heard of such dramas, and I have longed to see one. Think of it,” he said to Mercutio, “an entire play, set to music and sung.”

“The speeches and the dialogues both?” Mercutio asked. “I cannot quite picture it, but I shall be intrigued to hear how it works.”

Escalus shrugged. “Vincenzo will have only the latest style of music for his son’s wedding,” he said. “You are yet young men, and you see only the entertainment, but I note that Vincenzo will display his wealth and taste in retaining such a conductor as Monteverdi to bring us the newest and the most modern of the musical arts.”

“Nevertheless, I look forward to it,” Mercutio said, and Benvolio leaned down to kiss him, secure in his place once more.


	5. Too Like The Lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to "Il lamento d'Arianna," the only surviving music from this opera, [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZc2npAmQXM).

**5\. Too Like The Lightning**

* * *

That evening, the assembled dignitaries were ushered into a grand theater, so newly built that Mercutio could smell the wood and paint over the garlands of flowers and scented candles that decorated the place. The stage bore a monumental backdrop, resembling the finest palaces of high princes, with a curious pit in front of it in the shape of a half-moon. Beyond the half-moon rose ranks of benches, curved to focus attention on the stage, and framed by a colonnade topped with statues of musicians. The whole was crowned with a ceiling frescoed to resemble the open sky. It was a grand setting, and Mercutio supposed that a music drama must be an equally grand spectacle.

When he mentioned this to Escalus, the Prince of Verona nodded thoughtfully. “Vincenzo is not wholly reconciled with the royal house of Savoy,” he murmured. “An he can impress his wealth and might upon them, they may yet seal their alliance with Mantua in full. See, there are the envoys of Savoy.”

Escalus pointed to a pair of lavishly dressed men who greeted Margaret warmly and Francesco with cool politeness before taking their seats directly before the stage.

“Margaret’s elder brothers, Vittorio Amedeo and Emanuele Filiberto,” Escalus said. He turned to Paris. “Thou shouldst ensure time to speak to Vittorio,” he said, “for he is his father’s heir even as thou art mine. Thou wouldst do well to make friends of the Savoyards, for they control a great deal of territory and the riches generated by it. Thou wouldst have access as far as Spain and Jerusalem . . .”

Mercutio left his cousin to the political lecture and found seats for himself and Benvolio. Valentine and Silvia followed and sat with them, laying down Silvia’s wrap to reserve the next two places for Helena and for Paris, once Escalus chose to release him. Just as Escalus and Paris took their seats, there was a fanfare of trumpets. Duke Vincenzo arrived, with the Duchess on his arm. They seated themselves alongside Margaret’s brothers, and the drama began.

The music drama was every bit the grand spectacle that Mercutio had hoped. The story concerned the marriage of Theseus and Ariadne, and his subsequent abandonment of his bride upon the isle of Naxos. It was a curious theme for a wedding, but it did provide occasion for Ariadne to take the stage alone and sing a lament for her lost lover that was heartbreakingly beautiful in its simplicity. Never before had Mercutio heard music and poetry that intertwined so delightfully, each supporting but never overpowering the other, and both clearly at the service of a story. He listened, entranced, and two and a half hours seemed to fly past as if in a dream.

“That is brilliance itself,” he cried after the drama had concluded. “Truly, it is a feast for the eyes and for the ears. I know not who this Monteverdi may be, but he has taken the best part of the theater and the best part of a consort of musicians, and he has joined them so cleverly that it is become something altogether new.”

“Perhaps not altogether new,” Benvolio suggested. “I have read that the Greeks had music in their drama. Could this not be something similar?”

“Ay, perhaps, but surely the Greeks could not have had music such as we have heard tonight!”

“Mercutio!” Claudio Borsa made his way through the crowd, with his friend Follino in tow. “What thinkst thou of our entertainment, cousin?”

Mercutio smiled. “Truly, it is an honor to have heard it. I cannot imagine that any entertainment following may equal it for loveliness.”

Claudio laughed. “Then perhaps thou wouldst care to be presented to one of its creators.”

Mercutio glanced quickly at Benvolio. “Signior Monteverdi?” he asked. “I should not know what to say to him. I cannot speak of music to men who are trained in that craft.”

Claudio shook his head. “Not Monteverdi, for he has retired with his musicians. I speak of the poet who set forth the argument we have heard this night.”

“He very much wishes to speak with you,” Follino added. “He tells me that there is a close connection between you, and I confess, I have rather more than a passing interest in your kinsmen.”

Mercutio grimaced, but Follino smiled to show that he bore no ill will. Benvolio considered the offer. “Mayhap there is something there,” he mused. “Thou hast the soul of a poet; wherefore shouldst thou not count other poets among thy kin?”

“Lead on,” Mercutio said. “I confess that I am seized with curiosity as well, to see a man who could spin such a tale.”

With Benvolio close at his elbow, he followed Claudio and Follino to a relatively quiet corner of the salon, where a wiry man in his middle years awaited them, conversing with Matteo. “May I present our poet of the evening,” Claudio said. “Mercutio, didst thou know of thine uncle? I give thee my cousin, thy father’s brother, the poet Ottavio Rinuccini.”

Ottavio turned around, but his polite greeting was lost in the rushing that filled Mercutio’s ears. He stood rooted in place, unable to move, or to hear, or to speak, conscious only of the wave of pure, animal terror that coursed through him, blocking his mind with a torrent of memories, choking him with something lodged deep in his throat, stifling him with the rankest, most private odors of the body, assaulting his ears with panted obscenities, for the face before him, its expression one of deep puzzlement, was his father’s, the contours as they had been twenty years previous, during Mercutio’s childhood.

Ottavio was saying something, he was attempting to make conversation, but Mercutio could not make it out, and Ottavio fell silent, clearly waiting for Mercutio to speak, but Mercutio could not make a sound, and he was sure that Ottavio would take his silence as rudeness, and he knew all too well what the penalty for rudeness was, and he had not even known that Giacomo had a brother, but that was of no importance, for he should have learned his kinsmen, as any heir to such a fortunate household was bound to do, and only a great lumpen fool such as himself would neglect such duty to his house and to the bloodline that bore him, and if he could not achieve even so simple a familiarity, then he must suffer the consequences, and he would learn, oh yes he would learn, he would learn the closeness of kinship, burned deep within his body where the knowledge would never leave him . . .

And then there was another voice at his ear, a voice that was gentle and soft and promised comfort and safety, and an arm slid around his shoulders and turned him away from the terrible, fascinating face, and he knew Benvolio, and Benvolio guided him along the wall of the salon, whispering in his ear, and Mercutio could not comprehend the words, but the touch was firm, and he followed where he was led, and then the stifling air of the salon was replaced by the cool, clear air of the spring night, and the touch of the breeze on his face lent a little bit of strength to Mercutio’s legs.

“Canst thou walk?” Benvolio asked. “Come, I shall bring thee to our chamber, where we may be alone and away from the crowd.”

There was pavement beneath Mercutio’s feet, and he knew not for sure if it was the courtyard of the palace of Mantua or the streets of Verona, but he hoped that the road led to safety. That thought led to another. “Valentine?” he choked out.

“I know not,” Benvolio replied. “He is still at the theater. Paris is with him, and Silvia.”

A door creaked, and they were out of the night air. Torches glowed, and even that feeble light hurt Mercutio’s eyes and made his stomach churn, and he would have fallen save for Benvolio’s arm around him. There were stairs and guards, and one of them looked familiar, but that could not be, it was simply a trick of the light, and Benvolio spoke to the guard, his voice sharp and urgent but not unkind, and then there was a corridor and a door, and beyond the door was a great bed, and there were hands on him urging him toward it.

“No!” Mercutio cried. “I will not! Prithee, no, not this night!” He struggled and writhed, but the hands did not leave him, and he knew that fighting would bring no result, and then his strength deserted him, and he slid half-fainting to the floor. Strong arms cradled him, clasped him firmly, and he was enveloped in Benvolio’s warmth and his familiar scent.

“Thou art safe, _caro_ ,” Benvolio whispered. “There is a guard at the door, and none shall disturb us. Thou art safe, I have thee, I shall let no harm come to thee.”

Mercutio summoned the strength to raise one hand and clutch at Benvolio’s brocaded doublet, and then let forth a great cry, and wept until his chest felt hollow and his vision clouded with exhaustion.

* * *

He knew not how long he remained floating in that dreamlike limbo, but at last his mind began to clear. He lay sprawled across Benvolio’s lap, held securely in Benvolio’s arms. Benvolio rocked them both gently back and forth, and he gave a watery little smile when Mercutio blinked at him. “I love thee, _caro_ ,” Benvolio said. “Thou art safe. No harm shall come to thee this night.”

“My father . . .” Mercutio said, the words coming soft and slurred. “He is dead. It cannot have been his face I saw, and yet it was. I know that face, it haunts the edges of my sleep, even unto this day.”

“I know.”

“Mine uncle. Is that what Claudio said? I fear that I cannot recall his words. He did speak, did he not?”

Benvolio nodded. “Ay, he did. He said that the poet was thy father’s brother.”

“I knew not that he had a brother. Or perhaps I have forgotten it. I know not.” Mercutio pressed his fingers against his eyes, against the pain that began to throb behind them.

Benvolio shifted Mercutio so that he sat more fully upright in his arms. “Canst thou sit a little?” he asked. “I shall fetch thee a cool poultice.”

He helped Mercutio to sit in a chair and draped a blanket from the bed around Mercutio’s shoulders. Mercutio pulled the blanket tight around his body, taking a little comfort from its inanimate embrace. Benvolio left him for a few moments, and then returned, bearing the bowl from their washstand filled with cool water, and a pair of small towels. “I shall bathe thy face,” he said. “It will cool thy flushed brow and wash away the salt of thy tears.”

Mercutio sat still through Benvolio’s ministrations and tried to concentrate only on the immediate physical sensations of the damp towel wiping gently across the curves of his face. “I should not have left Valentine,” he said.

“The choice was not thine,” Benvolio replied. “Thou wast struck deaf, dumb, and blind. In that instant, I deemed it the better course to remove thee from the salon, as thou wast in immediate distress. We must trust Valentine’s welfare to his kin who remain with him.”

“Paris, aye. But what of Claudio? He is as much kin to us as Paris is.”

Benvolio gave a mirthless snort of laughter. “An Claudio has half the wit that I think he hath, he will not make the same misstep twice this night.”

“Valentine should know.”

“Ay, but it is too late to seek him out this night. Thou art in no condition to do so, and I am loath to leave thee alone. Thou mayst speak with Valentine tomorrow, or I shall speak with him.”

“An thou thinkst it best.” Mercutio shivered, and pulled the blanket higher about his shoulders.

Benvolio patted the dry towel over his face. “Thou shouldst sleep, _caro_ ,” he said.

Mercutio glanced at the large bed that they had occupied, and his gut knotted painfully. “I cannot sleep.

Benvolio pressed his lips together in thought for a moment, then rose and pulled the truckle from beneath the bed. “Perhaps this might be a softer couch for thy limbs,” he said, placing Mercutio’s pillow on the truckle and fluffing it a little.

Mercutio considered the offer. In the dull haze that clouded his mind, the truckle bed did appear inviting. “What of thou?” he asked.

“I shall sit with thee for a while, and then I shall sleep in the large bed,” Benvolio replied. “Thou hast more need of a friend than a consort tonight. Thou shalt sleep freely, and I shall watch over thee.”

Mercutio nodded, and Benvolio returned to the chair. “May I aid thee with thy clothing?” he asked.

The thought of someone else stripping him made Mercutio shudder, but he knew that he was too distraught to unfasten his own clothes. At least it would be Benvolio, he told himself, and managed to choke out, “Ay.”

Benvolio undid Mercutio’s buttons and laces as swiftly as he could, then stepped back to allow Mercutio to shed the garments on his own, busying himself in the meantime searching for Mercutio’s nightgown. He brought that garment to Mercutio, then helped him settle himself on the truckle, covered by the blanket. Then he returned to the chair, took the dry towel and dipped it in the basin, wringing it almost dry before he folded it into a compress. This he brought to Mercutio.

“Place this over thine eyes if thy head doth yet pain thee,” he said.

Mercutio did so, first pausing to ensure that the curtains were opened to admit the light of the full moon. Beneath the damp towel, all was cool and dark, and the ache behind Mercutio’s eyes began to recede. He listened to the rustling sounds of Benvolio readying himself for sleep.

When he was finished, Benvolio came and sat on the edge of the low truckle at Mercutio’s head. “How dost thou fare?” he asked.

“Better, I think.” Mercutio removed the towel from his eyes, where it had grown warm. Benvolio took it and placed it and the basin within reach, should Mercutio need it again in the night.

“Canst thou sleep, _caro_?”

“I know not.”

Benvolio reached out and gently caressed Mercutio’s hair. Mercutio shivered a little with relief at the comforting touch, and Benvolio smiled. He did not move, but remained at Mercutio’s side, stroking and caressing his hair and his shoulders until Mercutio slipped into an exhausted sleep.


	6. The Grey-Eyed Morn

**6\. The Grey-Eyed Morn**

* * *

The next morning dawned to find Mercutio pensive and more than a little ashamed of himself, but no longer horrifyingly undone. He was grateful that Benvolio was quiet this morning, greeting him with a gentle kiss on his knuckles and a few soft questions about his welfare, but not demanding that Mercutio account for his childish fit of the night before. They dressed themselves in companionable silence, and Benvolio laid a questioning hand on Mercutio’s shoulder. Mercutio considered for a moment, then nodded. Benvolio took him in a gentle embrace, and Mercutio breathed in the familiar scent of Benvolio’s hair.

“I would see my brother,” Mercutio said as they parted. Benvolio nodded, and they ventured out of their chamber and down the corridor to the quarters assigned to Valentine and Silvia.

It was Silvia who answered Mercutio’s knock on the door, and a look of relief spread across her face at the sight of him. “I had heard that thou hadst been taken ill,” she said. “I am glad to see that thou art recovered so soon.”

Mercutio managed a wry smile for his sister-in-law. “Not ill, madam, but . . . indisposed. I would speak to my brother, and to thee, of this matter. Will you hear?”

“Of course we shall hear,” Valentine said, emerging from a screened alcove. “But first, I would see for myself that thou art well.” He embraced Mercutio and looked searchingly into his eyes for a moment before ushering the group to the table in their room. Just as they settled themselves, a serving maid knocked at the door, then brought a tray of fruit and cheese in and set it on the table.

The others selected choice morsels, but Mercutio declined. He would have to speak of the poet Ottavio, and therefore of Ottavio’s resemblance to Giacomo, and he did not wish to eat anything that he might feel the need to vomit up later.

Valentine broke the silence, which had just begun to grow awkward. “Claudio approached me last night,” he said. “He seemed horror-struck, but he said not wherefore. He said that thou hadst left, Mercutio, and that thou didst look as though some evil spirit had possessed thee. But he would not say more.”

Benvolio nodded. “Then he does have wit, as I had hoped.”

Mercutio took a deep breath. “Claudio approached me before thee,” he said. “He wished to present me to the poet whose words were sung so enchantingly yesternight. The poet’s name is Ottavio Rinuccini.” He paused, waiting for the words to sink in.

It was Silvia who found her voice first. “Rinuccini?” she asked. “It cannot be so common a name . . .”

“It is not,” Mercutio said. “Valentine, _ragazzo_ , I know not how, but he is our uncle. He is Father’s brother.”

Valentine sat up a little straighter, and puzzlement spread across his features. He reached out and clasped Silvia’s hand.

“That is not all,” Mercutio went on. “He bears a strong resemblance to Father. Last night, I was so overcome by the enchantment of the music and the noise of the crowd that, for a fatal moment, I mistook him for Father.”

No more needed to be said on that subject. Valentine closed his eyes and sucked in a breath of pained sympathy, and Silvia reached across the table with her free hand and covered one of Mercutio’s with it.

“I can tell thee no more now,” Mercutio said softly. “But thou shouldst know this, at the least.”

Valentine nodded. “Ay. I thank thee, and I shall hold myself forewarned.”

* * *

Later in the morning, Margaret’s brothers organized a hunting party in honor of Francesco, and invited the young men of rank among the wedding guests to participate. Mercutio was glad to join them, for they hunted the wild boar, and it had been too long since he had wielded a spear. Benvolio and Valentine also participated eagerly, and Valentine especially admired the pack of dogs that accompanied them. Paris rode along, though with somewhat less enthusiasm, for his primary intent was to continue his newfound acquaintance with Vittorio Amedeo.

The chase was long and merry, a wild gallop through the wooded hills outside the city. In the end, the dogs brought down a young boar, and Francesco had the honor of spearing it. The physical activity of the hunt lifted Mercutio’s spirits considerably, and he was able to laugh and joke with the other young nobles after the kill. The sun was high and bright, and the day was warm, though not unseasonably so. For a few glorious hours, Mercutio could forget the horror of the night before, and he allowed himself to enjoy the memory of the wonderful music drama he had witnessed.

* * *

The reprieve was not a long one. No sooner had the hunting party returned to the Duke’s palace and dismounted than Claudio sought Mercutio out. “A word, gentle coz,” he called.

Mercutio handed his reins to a stable boy, and put a friendly smile on his face to greet his cousin. Valentine joined them, and Claudio gave his younger cousin a courteous nod.

“I am glad to see thee well again,” Claudio offered. “I trust that the affliction was mild?”

“I thank thee for thy concern, cousin,” Mercutio said. “I was overcome by the closeness of the air in the salon.”

Claudio studied his face for a long moment. “That cannot be the whole of the truth.”

Mercutio sighed his defeat. “It is not,” he admitted. “But that statement was no lie.”

“Very well, then.” Compassion flickered in Claudio’s eyes, though he could not comprehend.

“I know little of this matter,” Valentine put in. “Claudio, how camest thou to know of this poet’s relation to our family? Didst thou seek him out? Whence comes he?”

Claudio’s eyebrows shot up. “He is a Florentine, so far as I know. And he it was who sought me. He arrived in Mantua some weeks past to oversee the rehearsals of _L’Arianna_ , and word reached me that the poet Ottavio Rinuccini sought word of his brother Giacomo. My father knew Giacomo better than I did, and the two of them met. I joined their company only recently. I know not what more I may tell you.”

Mercutio glanced at Valentine, then nodded to Claudio. “Thou hast already told me much of value, and I thank thee for it. I would consult my brother further on this matter.”

Claudio gave a half-bow. “I understand. God ye good den.”

“Good den.” Mercutio and Valentine collected Benvolio, who had waited not far away, and the three of them retired to the guest wing.

They found a young page in an unfamiliar livery waiting outside the door to Mercutio and Benvolio’s chamber. When the page saw them coming, he scrambled to his feet and bowed. “I come from my master, Ottavio Rinuccini,” he said. “He wishes to arrange a private conference with his nephews, Signior Mercutio and Signior Valentine, and he commands me to wait upon the favor of a reply.”

There was silence for a moment. “Wherefore?” Valentine blurted. “Wherefore would thy master confer with us?”

The page shrugged. “He said that he wished to make the acquaintance of his nephews properly, but he said no more on the matter.”

Mercutio nodded. “Thou hast done well. I beg thee wait here a while longer. We must speak in private.” The page bowed, and Mercutio herded Benvolio and Valentine into the chamber.

“I would have Silvia hear our conference,” Valentine stammered. “Thou hast thy consort, and I would have mine as well.”

“Of course,” Mercutio said.

Valentine left to fetch his wife personally, and Mercutio sank into a chair. Benvolio knelt at his feet, kissed his hands, and laid his head in Mercutio’s lap. Mercutio twined his fingers in Benvolio’s hair and willed his racing heart to calm. When Valentine arrived a few moments later with Silvia in tow, Mercutio explained the page’s errand to her.

Silvia pursed her lips, considering. “On the face of it, the request is not unreasonable,” she said.

Mercutio nodded. “Ay, and therefore I did not deny it outright. I know that we are all full grown, and yet . . .” He let the thought trail off unspoken.

Silvia blinked, puzzled. “What is thy will in this matter?” she asked. “An thou wert free of all other constraint, what wouldst thou do?”

“I know not.” Mercutio shook his head slowly. “I find myself torn in two. I cannot bear to look upon that face again and summon forth the memories that would choke the breath from my body. And yet I would know who this Ottavio is and how it is that he is our uncle and what fate has caused us to meet in this place at this time. I would know, but I fear to learn it of him.” He took a breath. “And I fear for my brother as well, though I know that is naught but mine own weakness of mind.”

“Not weakness, _caro_ ,” Benvolio put in. “I would say rather the well-trained habit of thy youth.”

Silvia turned to Valentine. “What sayest thou, husband?”

Valentine scrubbed his hands over his face and moved to lean against the window frame, staring out at the courtyard below. “I would that this poet had never traveled to Mantua, and had never sought us out. I would that this choice had not been forced upon us.”

He trembled, and Silvia wrapped him in a gentle embrace. “But I, too, would know wherefore he is here,” Valentine finished softly.

A silence fell over the chamber. Valentine had laid bare the crux of the problem, and Mercutio could think of no solution, though his head ached with the effort. A moan of frustration escaped him, and Benvolio moved to stand behind him, carding gentle fingers through Mercutio’s hair. The touch was soothing, but it elicited no further wisdom.

Presently, Silvia lifted her head from Valentine’s shoulder, her eyes alight. “How foolish we have been,” she said. “We have taken for granted that Ottavio must meet with the pair of you alone. An he would truly know his nephews, he should at the least know of Valentine’s lady wife as well.” She turned to Benvolio. “And their foster brother, as the law acknowledges thee, an thou wouldst not yet disclose that thou art Mercutio’s consort.”

Mercutio’s headache spiked, but hope flared in his breast as well. “I should be glad of thy company, sister,” he said. “But I know naught of this man, and I cannot promise that thou wouldst be free from peril.”

Silvia straightened her spine. “This is not the forest beyond the walls of Milan. I would be in the company of my lord and his brothers, a guest of the Duke of Mantua, in a palace with armed guards standing ready should I call,” she replied. “Should any man be so foolish as to lay a hand on my person, he would be cut down ere he had moved from his place.”

Valentine nodded. “I should defend my lady wife unto the death.”

“As would I,” Mercutio said. “And thee as well, _ragazzo_.”

“And it will likely not come to that,” Silvia added. “Mayhap the presence of a lady will serve to cool men’s tempers.”

“Ay, let us hope,” Benvolio said. He leaned down to embrace Mercutio. “Thou needst face no terror alone. That is the sole reason for my presence in this city at this time, and I shall not be found wanting.”

Mercutio leaned into the embrace, allowing himself to draw strength and courage from it. “Thou art too good for me, sweet friend,” he murmured, for Benvolio’s ears alone. Benvolio tightened the embrace, and Mercutio’s heart lightened as a plan formed in his mind.

“I shall receive Ottavio first,” he said, “and Benvolio will be at my side. I trust that our second meeting will improve upon the first, for I know now to expect my father’s visage on another man. I will talk to Ottavio and ensure his intentions, and then I will send for Valentine and Silvia. Thus may we learn of each other in peace.”

Valentine nodded. “Ay, that plan is best. But let it be soon, ere I lose my stomach for such adventure.”

“After supper. There is no entertainment planned for this evening, and we may meet undisturbed.”

The others agreed to this plan, and Mercutio rose and went to the door. Ottavio’s faithful page still waited in the corridor, and Mercutio gave him the reply to convey to his master. In less than half an hour, the page returned to them.

“My master sends his thanks for your reply,” he said, bowing. “He knows not wherefore you impose such conditions upon your meeting, but he trusts that you have reason for it, and he is content to learn those reasons when you may desire to make them known.”

Mercutio could not stop a small sigh of relief at that; already it proved that Ottavio was less inclined toward tyranny than his brother. “At what hour will it please thy master to join us?” he asked.

“Should your lordships be at leisure at the hour of eight, it would suit my master well.”

Mercutio nodded. “Then we will await his company at eight.” He took two coins from his pouch and pressed them into the page’s hand. “That is for thy pains. Go with God.”

The page bowed and scurried away. Mercutio closed the door, and only then did he allow himself to tremble. Benvolio hurried to his side.

“ _Caro_ ,” he murmured, and Mercutio melted into his embrace.


	7. 'Tis But Thy Name

**7\. ‘Tis But Thy Name**

* * *

Supper that evening was a trial for Mercutio. He knew that he must eat, for he would be of no use if he fainted upon greeting Ottavio. But he had no stomach for food, and even less desire for wine that might blur his head at a moment when he would need all of his wit. Fortunately, Benvolio understood his dilemma, and did not judge him, but gently pressed him to eat, selecting the lightest, choicest morsels for his plate and coaxing him with honeyed words until at last Mercutio could bring himself to swallow.

They did not tarry long after the Duke had left the table, but made their excuses and hurried back to their chamber. Benvolio ordered that a bottle of wine and sufficient goblets be brought to them, and then dismissed the servants. The gilt chamber clock upon the mantel indicated that it was close to eight. Mercutio closed his eyes and tried to recall the beauty of the music drama that Ottavio had had a hand in creating.

A knock on the door drew him from his reverie. Benvolio laid a calming hand on his shoulder and then went to the door. Mercutio could hear him greeting their guest in pleasant tones, and rose to his feet. Benvolio opened the door wide and ushered Ottavio Rinuccini into their chamber.

Now that he knew to anticipate the shock of resemblance, Mercutio found that he could look Ottavio in the eye without flinching visibly. He saw that, while Ottavio did indeed bear a striking resemblance to Giacomo, the imitation was not exact. Where Giacomo’s features had been blunt and powerful, Ottavio’s were somewhat refined. The lines around his eyes came from laughter rather than fury, and his eyes held no rage or lust, but curiosity only. “Uncle,” Mercutio said, the word emerging as a choked whisper.

Ottavio stepped forward, raising a hand, but letting it hang in the air, its intent uncertain. “Mercutio,” he breathed. “My brother’s son. Art thou well?”

“Ay.” Mercutio’s knees shook treacherously. “Nay. I know not. How . . . how art thou here? How art thou who thou art? How did I not know of this, of thee?”

Ottavio gave a wry smile. “That is a tale that is not long in the telling, but one that should not be hurried, either. As much as thou wouldst know me, so I would know thee, though it appears that I have the advantage in this matter.”

Benvolio gestured to a chair. “Let us look to our comfort, if this tale is to be told at length,” he said. Ottavio seated himself, and watched as Benvolio guided Mercutio to another chair. Benvolio did not sit, but stood at Mercutio’s side, a strong and familiar presence. Mercutio ruthlessly suppressed the urge to slip his hand into Benvolio’s.

“Who art thou?” Mercutio asked. “My cousin Claudio has told me that thou art mine uncle. But my father told me my heritage when I was a boy, and yet he spoke no word of his brother.”

“Half brother,” Ottavio replied. “I do not wonder that Giacomo spoke no word of me, though I see that it might have been better if he had. I knew him not, though I am told that he held me in his arms on the day of my christening and that I played at his feet as a babe.”

“He must have been thy elder by many years,” Mercutio said, “for thou dost resemble him as I knew him in my childhood. I wonder that he did not recall thee.”

Ottavio laughed. “I cannot imagine that he forgot, for all the ill will he bore me and my lady mother. He was full twenty years of age at my birth, and he did not forgive my mother for wedding his father instead of himself. Had Giacomo had his way, I should have been thy brother and not his.”

Mercutio could not suppress a shocked gasp, but disguised it as a laugh. “That is thy fortune. Thy mother was not my father’s mother?”

“Nay. Thy grandfather, my father, wedded twice. His first bride, Serafina, gave him Giacomo. After Serafina’s death, he took the Florentine gentlewoman Ginevra Zirondi to wife, and that lady is my mother.”

Mercutio leaned back in his chair and did not speak for a moment as he tried to digest what he had just heard. Giacomo had occasionally spoken of his own father, and had described him as dissolute, a shameless libertine given to greed and the mindless satiation of his boundless appetites. More than once, he had accused Mercutio of having inherited the same perverse and wanton desires, and Mercutio still burned with shame at the memory of what his father had done to him on those occasions. He shut his eyes against the thought. When he opened them, Benvolio was kneeling at his elbow, and Ottavio was looking at him with an expression of puzzled concern.

“Canst thou continue?” Benvolio asked, his voice low.

Mercutio nodded, though he gripped the arms of his chair so hard that he feared to leave his mark upon the wood. “Ay. Now that I have begun, I must know all.” He fixed his gaze upon Ottavio once more.

Ottavio’s eyes flicked back and forth between Benvolio and Mercutio, but at last, he sighed and leaned back. “There is little more that I can tell thee,” he said. “My father died when I was a babe of three years, and my mother returned with me to her kin in Florence, where I grew to manhood. We had little, as the bulk of my father’s property derived to my brother Giacomo, but my mother managed to acquire tutors for me, and I learned to compose poetry for the Medici court. It was there that I made acquaintance of Claudio Monteverdi, who has set my poor words most gloriously to music. When he received the commission for this wedding, I begged leave to accompany him, for I had heard from my mother that my cousins the Borsas resided in that city, and I resolved to know more of my father’s family. I was saddened to hear that my brother had died ere I could re-acquaint myself with him, but my sadness was tempered when I heard that he had left behind two sons.”

He ended this speech with a smile at Mercutio that was kind and almost apologetic. There was silence for a moment, as Mercutio absorbed the remainder of Ottavio’s tale. He wished that he knew what Matteo Borsa had told Ottavio about Giacomo, for the poet seemed a gentle man, and Mercutio hesitated to shatter the idolatrous image of the worshiped older brother that clearly shone in Ottavio’s imagination.

Benvolio poured wine into two of the goblets, and gave one to Ottavio. “The tale is well told, and merits refreshment,” he said. He set the other one before Mercutio. “Drink, Mercutio, just a little. It will strengthen thee.”

Ottavio held his goblet, clearly waiting for his host. Mercutio took a small sip of his wine, just enough to be polite, and Ottavio took a grateful swallow of his own. He had been most kind and generous with his tale, Mercutio noted, and he had merited the same in return. Mercutio took a deep breath and thought frantically about how best to begin his tale.

“I am thy brother’s elder son,” he heard himself say. “My brother Valentine awaits my call with his wife, the lady Silvia.”

Ottavio nodded gravely, and his glance strayed to Benvolio.

Mercutio hesitated but a moment. “This is Benvolio Montague. He is our foster brother.”

Ottavio pinched his lips together as if considering a move at chess. “He is more than that, is he not?” Benvolio stiffened, but neither he nor Mercutio denied Ottavio’s guess. Ottavio looked from one to the other and nodded. “I am a Florentine and I work in the theaters,” he said. “A poor poet would I be if I did not know true love when it stood before mine eyes. It is a part of life, as much as any other. You have naught to fear from me on that score.”

Benvolio let out a sigh of relief and moved to wrap an arm around Mercutio, who leaned into the embrace. Ottavio smiled.

“That is better,” he said. “That is how you are meant to be. Come, nephew, pray continue thy tale. Thou hast a brother.”

Mercutio nodded. “Ay. Our mother was the lady Donatella, sister to Escalus, the Prince of Verona. She died when I was but seven years of age. An earthquake took her, and my father did not marry again. I know not wherefore, though I suspect that he may have feared losing the patronage of the Prince. He was one of the wealthiest men in Verona, and we wanted for naught.”

“Save only the love of a mother,” Ottavio murmured.

Mercutio forced himself to swallow the tears that threatened to emerge. “My mother’s soul is with God, and I count her fortunate,” he choked out. “My father . . . Uncle, if I may call thee so?”

“Ay.”

“My father was not a good man. He was ruthless and cruel and thought only of his own desires and welfare, sparing none. He spent the last six years of his life in exile in this city for the crimes he committed in Verona. I was a lad of fourteen when last I saw him alive, and the next time I laid eyes upon him was at his funeral these eleven years past.” Mercutio was shaking now, and it was only Benvolio’s soothing caresses that kept him from flying apart.

Ottavio looked deeply grieved at the news, but the light of discovery dawned behind his eyes as well. “Even now, he is not dead to thee,” he said slowly. “Thou didst suffer his cruelty as a child.”

Mercutio could not speak, but he nodded.

Ottavio sighed, but he did not seem angered. “I would that such news could cause me to scoff and disbelieve,” he said. “But thou hast now answered one of the riddles surrounding my brother’s life. My mother refused to speak of him to me, saying only that we were well rid of him. But there is more that thou hast not yet told me,” he went on. “I will not force thee to recite Giacomo’s sins, but I beg of thee, tell me at the least what it is that calls forth terror when thou dost look upon me.”

“Thou didst hit thy mark well,” Mercutio said softly. “It is my cruel fate that my mother’s face is nearly faded from my memory, but my father’s face dances before me whenever I close mine eyes. I guess that thou hast never seen my father’s likeness.”

Ottavio shook his head. Mercutio broke Benvolio’s embrace and rose. He went to the dressing table and retrieved a small hand mirror, which he gave to Ottavio. “There is thy brother,” he said. “The resemblance is uncanny, especially since you were born of different mothers.”

Ottavio stared into the mirror for a long moment. Grief and understanding chased each other across his face. “I understand now,” he choked out. “At the theater yesternight, our eyes met, and I thought that thou wouldst faint dead away. It was a blow to me, and I knew not what to make of it. But now I begin to understand. Thou didst know nothing of me, and when I turned, it was my brother and not I who appeared before thee.”

Mercutio knelt at Ottavio’s feet. “Thou hast my sincere apology.”

“The fault is thy father’s; I hold thee blameless,” Ottavio replied. “I would not ask more of thee than thou art willing to give, but . . . I would know.”

He looked so sorrowful that Mercutio’s heart ached for the dream that he had destroyed. “My father was a man of violent delights, and he took pleasure in inflicting pain upon others. My brother and I were the objects of his fury, the infant prisoners of his rage. When I could no longer shield him from the worst harm, I stole him.”

“Stole him?”

“I stole my brother, and I took him to our uncle the Prince, who in his mercy forgave us that crime and exiled my father to his kinsmen here in Mantua. I know not all of what he did when he dwelt here; perhaps my -- our Borsa cousins can tell thee more tales of that time. But his anger did not abate, that I do know. Even now, there are streets in this city where thou and I cannot walk, for the mention of our name would bring ruin upon us. And that is all to the account of my father.”

Ottavio was silent for a while, gazing upon Mercutio’s face. Mercutio did not flinch beneath that regard, nor did he reach for Benvolio’s hand, though he knew that his consort stood nearby and would happily give comfort if Mercutio requested it of him. But this moment belonged properly to Ottavio, and Mercutio would give him the time that he required to come to terms with the tale that he had heard.

At last, Ottavio nodded, and gave Mercutio a gentle smile. “I thank thee, kinsman,” he said. “Though this tale of my brother’s life saddens me, still I am glad that I have heard it. And I am glad that thou didst not keep it from me, thinking perhaps to spare me shame.”

“I have not told thee all of what my father did,” Mercutio said.

Ottavio waved this remark away. “The details matter not. Thou didst not dissemble when thou didst speak of his character, and that is the heart of the matter. I came to Mantua to learn of my brother, and I have done so. My brother was a cruel man, but I know this of him now, and as terrible as that knowledge is, it eases my heart.”

Mercutio let out a sigh of relief. Ottavio laughed.

“What, didst thou think that I would blame thee for the tale that thou didst tell?”

Mercutio opened his mouth to reply, but could not bring himself to meet Ottavio’s eyes. Ottavio’s laughter faded.

“Ah. Thou didst think so. Well, I know who is at fault in that. Rise, nephew. I shall tell thee to thy face that I hold thee blameless. I am not my brother, as thou hast seen, and thou art not thy father. Though we are his kin, we are not his imitations. Thou art a good man, a man of courage and honesty, and those virtues are entirely thine own.”

He extended his hand to Mercutio, and Mercutio took it. Ottavio’s hand was large, warm and dry, and he raised Mercutio to his feet, but did not touch him further. Mercutio smiled at him.

“I thank thee, Uncle. I confess that I had feared to meet with thee, but now I am glad that I have done so.”

Ottavio bowed his acknowledgement, then turned to Benvolio. “Thou art to be commended as well, I think,” he said. “Thy love appears as a powerful restorative. Care for him well.”

Benvolio smiled even as a blush crept across his face. “Forever,” he murmured.

Mercutio gave Benvolio’s hand a quick squeeze. “I think it is time,” he said to Ottavio. “I shall fetch Valentine and his wife, and so thou shalt see the other half of my father’s legacy.”


	8. Both Alike In Dignity

**8\. Both Alike In Dignity**

* * *

Benvolio had dismissed all of the servants, so Mercutio went himself to summon Valentine and Silvia. When he called upon them, Valentine was pacing the chamber as Silvia sat and watched. Upon seeing Mercutio, Silvia leaped to her feet.

“Thank God thou hast come,” she said. “I am nigh to fainting from befuddlement as I watch my husband in his courses.”

“What news?” Valentine asked hoarsely. “Hast thou seen him?”

“Ay, I have,” Mercutio replied. “He is nothing at all like Father. He spoke kindly to me, though I destroyed his fantasy of a wise and kind brother.”

A tiny, hopeful smile fluttered across Valentine’s face. “I hope that he will not resent me overmuch, then, for having what he does not.”

Mercutio smiled and flung an arm around his brother’s shoulders. Silvia clasped Valentine’s hand, and together they walked to the chamber where Ottavio awaited them.

* * *

Just inside the door, Valentine went completely still upon catching sight of his uncle. But Mercutio’s arm was still around his shoulders, and he felt no tremors in his brother’s body. “Uncle,” he said, “may I present my brother Valentine and his lady wife Silvia.”

Ottavio bowed. Valentine remained frozen in place for a moment, and then his breath caught, and he returned the bow, his movements stiff and hasty. Ottavio gave him an encouraging smile and stepped forward, though he was wise enough now to move slowly and not extend his hand immediately. “My brother’s sons,” he murmured. “Let me look upon you together.”

There was silence for a while as Ottavio gazed upon them. Mercutio dearly wished that he knew Ottavio’s thoughts in that moment, but Ottavio’s face was a mask. At last, Ottavio stepped back and smiled once more. “It is a miracle,” he said softly. Then he turned his attention to Silvia.

“A thousand pardons, dear lady,” he said. “My thoughts have been arrested by my kin, and I have not yet given thee a proper greeting.”

Silvia blushed and dipped a fine curtsey. “It is an honor to meet such an eloquent poet. I was most impressed by the lament of Arianna.”

Ottavio laughed. “The honor is mine, lady, but I thank thee for thy kindness, though I am sure there was better poetry in thy husband’s wooing.”

“Nay, he is a plain speaker,” Silvia said. “The poetry dances in his eyes when he gazes upon that which he loves.”

Valentine blushed mightily at this praise, and some of the tension began to drain from his posture. Ottavio let out a hearty laugh and extended his hands to Mercutio and Valentine. “You cheer my heart,” he said. “I grieved to hear of my brother’s cruelty, but I am consoled in making acquaintance of his sons. I begin to understand how difficult a thing it was that you should look upon me and see me as myself and not my brother’s shade. In you I see tremendous courage, and it is my honor to name you my kinsmen.”

Slowly, a brilliant smile lit Valentine’s face. With a glance at Silvia for courage, he stepped forward to embrace Ottavio, who clasped him to his chest as though Valentine were his own son returned from a long journey. Mercutio rejoiced to see such a bold step from Valentine, and even more when he realized that no fear for his brother’s safety arose in his own heart. Valentine broke the embrace after a few moments, but did not flee.

Benvolio ensured that there were sufficient goblets of wine and handed them around. “Now that we have become kinsmen, let us talk as friends,” he suggested.

Ottavio raised his goblet. “An excellent offer. I would know all that there is to know about the family, and about the home in Verona I left as an infant.”

Mercutio nodded to Valentine to begin. Valentine’s smile took on the haze of warmth that indicated that his thoughts had turned to his children. “Our Lady above has blessed Silvia and me with a daughter and a son, Marietta and Girolamo. Marietta is three years of age, and Girolamo is but one, but already they are strong and fearless children.”

“Marietta’s cheerful prattle lightens my days,” Silvia added, “and Girolamo has just begun to walk and run about in his sister’s wake.”

Ottavio smiled. “I am glad to hear of them, and I shall remember their health in my prayers. I am certain that they are beautiful.”

“They are,” Valentine replied, “for there is much of their mother in them.” Silvia blushed and hid her face in her hands for a moment.

“And what of the house?” Ottavio went on. “I have no memories of it, yet I know the tales that my mother told of my infancy in my father’s house, of the fruit trees that blossomed in the spring and filled the courtyard with their fragrance . . .” His voice trailed off, and his dream-filled smile faded.

Mercutio saw a look of strangled horror on Valentine’s face, and knew from the churning in his stomach that he bore a similar expression on his own. Benvolio clasped his hand beneath the table, caressing the wrist with his thumb. The gesture served to calm Mercutio’s suddenly racing heart, but it could not stop the flood of memories that flowed through him, of all the times that he or Valentine had been beaten or suffered worse punishment because of some slight to those trees, real or imagined. After Giacomo’s death, Mercutio had more than once considered having the orchard chopped down and burnt. Though he was glad now that he had not done so, it did not make his memories hurt any less.

“The trees still stand, and they are loved and cared for,” Benvolio said, and Mercutio glanced up in unexpected gratitude. “The house stands as well, though its former owner would not know it. Today it is a home for Verona’s orphans and foundlings. They are fed, clothed, and sheltered, so that they may be apprenticed to a trade or go into service and make their own way in the world.”

Mercutio closed his eyes and thought of those children, allowing the images of their smiling faces to chase his darker thoughts from his mind’s eye. “They are not the children of the body, as are Marietta and Girolamo,” he said, as much to himself as to Ottavio, “but they are children of the heart. I would not see them discarded in the streets like so many kitchen scraps.”

“I see,” Ottavio said after a moment. Mercutio opened his eyes and saw that Ottavio was regarding him and Benvolio with an expression of mingled sadness and grave respect. “I see,” he said again, glancing at Valentine and Silvia.

No one knew quite what to say for a few moments. At last, Ottavio rose. “There is much more that I would learn, but I would not wish to weary you with endless tales,” he said. “The hour grows late, and I would think on that which I have already learned. My deepest thanks for the confidence that you have placed in me.” He favored them with another smile, though one tinged with sorrow.

They rose to see him out. Ottavio bowed to his nephews and Benvolio and kissed Silvia’s hand. “It has been my honor to meet with you,” he said. “I would do so again ere the festivities conclude.” With a final bow, he left the chamber.

Valentine and Silvia waited only until the sound of Ottavio’s footsteps had died away before they bade Benvolio and Mercutio good night. Even in the dim candlelight, Mercutio could see that, despite his embrace of Ottavio and the pleasant conversation, Valentine was pale, and fine droplets of sweat stood out on his brow. He embraced both Benvolio and Mercutio in turn, and Mercutio could feel fine tremors, though he could not be certain whether he or Valentine was shaking. “He is not Father, _ragazzo_ ,” he murmured low in Valentine’s ear.

“I know,” Valentine replied. “But I am not yet certain who he is, and my mind is awhirl.”

“Mine as well,” Mercutio said, and released him. Valentine took Silvia’s hand, and together they returned to their quarters.

It was only when Mercutio wished to go to the basin and wash his face that he discovered that his legs would not hold him any more. He sank trembling into Benvolio’s embrace and remained there for a while. He did not weep, though a few silent tears rolled down his face. He lay with his head cradled on Benvolio’s shoulder, surrounded by his lover’s warmth and the scent of his body.

“He was right, _caro_ ,” Benvolio said, and Mercutio placed his hand on Benvolio’s chest to feel it thrum in time to his words. “Thou art a man of great courage, to face him knowing that his visage calls forth thy darkest fears.”

“I had to know.”

“Ay. And there is more that thou must know. But not tonight.” Benvolio dropped a soft, dry kiss on Mercutio’s brow, then picked up the hand that rested on his chest and kissed that as well. “Today is past. Wilt thou sleep in the bed with me, or in the truckle?”

Mercutio frowned. “I know not. I would have thee at my side, but I would not sport with thee. The bed is too large, but it does not feel just to claim the truckle for myself and leave thee to warm thy bed alone. I would just as well fall asleep here, in thine arms, and wake where thou wilt place me.”

Benvolio laughed a little. “That is no solution, _caro_ ,” he said. His body twisted for a moment as he glanced at the beds. “The truckle is small, but I think that it is not so small that thou and I could not both find rest there. Thou dost not occupy much space, after all,” he added, wrapping his arms more securely around Mercutio’s thin frame. “And thou mayst rest assured that I shall not force unwilling sport upon thee.”

“Thou hast never done so,” Mercutio agreed with a little smile. “An thou wilt sleep willingly in so confined a space, let it be so.”

For answer, Benvolio kissed him again, and they broke their embrace just long enough to prepare themselves for sleep. The truckle bed was just large enough to hold them both. They twined arms and legs together, and Mercutio drew the covers over them. He was pressed firmly against Benvolio’s side, seemingly surrounded on all sides by his consort. With such swaddling, he thought, he might well be able to fend off whatever dreams would come to plague him in the night.

* * *

They did not see Ottavio the next day, though Mercutio did not wonder or take offense at this. It seemed that everyone had need of some time apart to consider what they had learned of each other. Mercutio allowed his friendship with Claudio Borsa to resume, and Claudio was tactful enough not to pry into Mercutio’s dealings with Ottavio. In fact, the next time that Mercutio even caught sight of his uncle was the day after, sitting between Benvolio and their little friend Eleonore with the rest of the Mantuan court enjoying the enormous mock naval battle that Duke Vincenzo had caused to be performed in the lagoon.

The spectacle was grand and absorbing, and Mercutio thrilled at the mighty roar of the ships’ cannons, though for this display they were loaded only with straw and salt. He could well imagine the glories and the terrors of these ships set against the Ottoman fleets, and he kept Eleonore amused by narrating the battle for her as though it were real, giving fanciful names and histories to the ships’ captains. He only noticed Ottavio because Benvolio spied him in the crowd and pointed him out. There was no opportunity to seek him until after the battle was over, by which time Ottavio had vanished. Mercutio could not decide whether or not he was sorry about that.

But Ottavio did make his thoughts known later. Benvolio and Mercutio returned to their chamber to find Ottavio’s page waiting for them with a letter and a small pouch. These he pressed into Mercutio’s hand, bowed, and left. The letter bore what was clearly Ottavio’s seal in purple wax, and Mercutio opened it carefully so as to preserve the seal whole. The letter was short but heartfelt.

 _To my newfound kinsman Mercutio,_

 _Allow me to express once more my honor and gratitude for the peace that thou hast given me. Though it may seem strange, considering the nature of thy tale, I find that peace comes to me from knowing my brother at last. No more is he a figure of vain fantasy, a dark name whispered from my mother’s lips as the evening shadows fall. Though I find that he was a cruel man, still my heart is eased, for I know now that he was a man, as human as thou or I._

 _Still, I cannot but be moved to hear the tales of the suffering that thou and Valentine did endure at Giacomo’s hands. I am honored by thy courage, and I wish thee nothing more than the best in life. Upon further consideration, I am glad to know the fate of my father’s house. I shall seek out my lawyer upon my return to Florence, and I shall make thee a gift in furtherance of this thy charity, which I would call the better half of the vengeance that thou must surely desire upon Giacomo. In the meanwhile, I beg thee be honored to accept this small token of my gratitude, and know that thou mayst call upon me freely shouldst thy fortune contrive to bring thee to Florence._

 _Ottavio_

Inside the pouch was a signet ring, similar to that which had sealed the letter, though smaller.

Mercutio examined it, unsure what to think of the gift. The only signet ring he owned was the one that he had been given as a small child, which no longer fit his finger. That ring he kept in a box in his study at the Hospital, and used it to seal his business correspondence, preferring to use the signet of the royal family, his mother’s house, for his personal letters. This ring that Ottavio had given him must have been part of his meager inheritance from his father, Mercutio’s grandfather. It was large enough to fit an adult finger, so that Mercutio could wear it on official occasions if he chose.

He slipped the ring on his finger and considered the effect. It looked adult and dignified on his hand. It proclaimed his allegiance to the House of Rinuccini, but it did not bear his father’s taint. Mercutio could look upon this ring and read his uncle and his grandfather in its etched surfaces, two men who had also endured Giacomo’s destructive presence in their lives. Perhaps he might even keep it as his own and bestow his child’s ring upon Girolamo. Although, he thought, not until Girolamo had reached an age where he would not attempt to swallow his uncle’s gift.

Benvolio took Mercutio’s ringed hand in his own and admired it. “It suits thee well, caro,” he said. “Thou mayst acknowledge thy kin with pride, for not all of them are evil.”

Mercutio nodded, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Ay, I shall acknowledge them. But I still do not like this city.”

Benvolio embraced him. “We must remain here only a few days longer, and then we shall return home. In the meantime, we may enjoy the entertainments and perhaps, an thou wilt, seek out Ottavio for further conversation.”

“Ay, I should like that,” Mercutio said. “But there is one other I must seek out first. Since I have spoken with mine uncle, I fancy that my courage has become strong enough to permit it.”

“Shall I accompany thee?” Benvolio asked.

“Only if thou so desirest,” Mercutio answered. “I think that I am now strong enough to do this alone if thou wouldst rather seek thy leisure elsewhere.”

Benvolio smiled and kissed him, and let the matter drop there. And indeed, when the day that Mercutio had selected arrived, Benvolio gave him a firm embrace and went to attend a joust with Francesco and his gentlemen. Alone, Mercutio went to the salon where he had arranged this meeting.

Matteo Borsa was already there, sipping at a goblet of wine. He rose and embraced Mercutio and poured a goblet for him. Mercutio took it and sat down on the cushioned bench at the old man’s side. He smiled at his cousin, and there was no fear in his heart.

“Tell me,” he said, “about my father.”

* * *

END

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story! As promised, here is a list of where the characters come from. Matteo Borsa is an import from Verdi’s _Rigoletto_ , where he is a minor tenor role. His son Claudio is my invention.
> 
> As for the next set of characters, I would note that they are analogues to their real-life counterparts, as characters in historical fiction tend to be. Duke Vincenzo is an amalgam of the Duke from _Rigoletto_ (a tenor, who sings the famous aria [“La donna è mobile”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8A3zetSuYRg)) and the real-life Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga of Mantua, whose second wife was his cousin Eleonora de’ Medici. They had five surviving children, four of whom you’ve met in this story. Francesco, the eldest, really did marry Margaret of Savoy in 1608, and it’s a safe bet that his brothers Ferdinando and Vincenzo were at the wedding, as well as his littlest sister Eleonore. His other sister, Margherita, had previously been married to Henry II, Duke of Lorraine.
> 
> Finally, Ottavio Rinuccini was a real person. When I originally wrote _Caro_ , I needed a surname for Mercutio and Valentine, and I stole his without thinking much about it. Later on, I realized that Ottavio was very much alive during the period in which I had set the story. He has the distinction of being the first opera librettist, though I don’t know much else about him, since the only biography I could find is written in Italian. The history I’ve given Ottavio’s character here is entirely made up; I’m sure the real Ottavio Rinuccini had a much more pleasant life and family!


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